Fun facts about Mark and Roger
by Cthulhu On Rye
Summary: Exactly what it sounds like, a bunch of fun facts that everone should know about the boys. MR slash and has some language and themes.
1. Chapter 1

_1) Mark had been tied up with his scarf at least four times before he actually wore it out of the loft._

His skin was slick with sweat as the fabric was wrapped tight around his wrists, the knot proving to be effective as Mark gave a good tug. His vision was obscured by the blindfold around his eyes, so he couldn't see when Roger leaned in beside him, or when he sucked and nibbled at the male's earlobe.

"Merry Christmas." Came the deep voice from beside him, Rogers' breath sending a chill down the male's spine as he was forced to the ground.

Mark found that with the gag, he could do nothing but moan in response.

_2) Mark has a tendency to sleepwalk._

Something stirred in the corner, causing Roger to mumble and turn in his sleep. A few minutes later it came again, though this time he bothered to squint into the darkness. Something was in the corner, but any distinguishing features obscured by shadows. He didn't need any; he already knew what it was. Grabbing a pillow he hurled it at the figure, waiting a few seconds, then grinning at the string of curses.

A disgruntled Mark climbed into bed next to him, and Roger fell back asleep with a satisfied grin.

_3) Roger has a bit of a sweet tooth._

Roger kicked the door open, both hands clutching bags of groceries. "Hey I'm hooome!" Came the musician's voice as he set the bags on the table. When no one answered he let out a relieved sigh he began to shove the contents of the bags into the cabinets, occasionally glancing behind him before going back to his task.

All the bags were stored away but one. Roger reached inside, withdrawing the chocolate bar with a satisfied grin. Picking up the rest of the back, he snuck off back into his room to enjoy his spoils.

_4) Both Mark and Roger have had relationships with other men,_

They sat opposite each other in a corner of the Life, Roger nursing a cup of coffee while Mark had tea.

How's Rob?" questioned Roger as he sipped at his drink.

Mark shrugged, his attention concentrated soley on the bowl of sugar that sat between them.

"Oh, well Jason and I broke it off." he told the other. "Said that he signed up for me, not my baggage. I told him to fuck off, and we both left." Stirring his coffee, he glanced at his companion.

Mark was quiet for a moment before mumbling, "We broke up too, he was cheating on me."

"That bastard...well he didn't know how well he had it." Raising his mug he continued "To being single."

"Cheers." And the two drank deep.

_5) Roger never could work the hotplate._

Mark stumbled through the door of his room, coughing and trying to blow away the smoke that assaulted him mercilessly.

"Roger!" he called out to his roommate through the thick smoke, "What the hell's on fire?"

Roger soon appeared next to him one hand covering his own mouth. "It's the damned hotplate," he explained as he began to open the windows. "Did we get rid of that fire extinguisher?"

Mark rolled his eyes.

_6. Roger can't tango._

"Fuck!" Mark's foot was stepped on for the umpteenth time that night.

Joanne sat back and laughed, earning her a glare from both Roger and Mark. She just shrugged at them. "Maybe you two should just let it go. If he wasn't meant to tango, he wasn't meant to tango."

Roger rolled his eyes, "Sorry I'm not as light on my feet as some people here."

Mark sighed, "Its ok, not like I really depended on my feet anyway."

Joanne laughed again, while Roger sent him a mock glared.

_7. Mark had thought about taking the dominant role more then once in his life._

He watched Roger from the corner of his eye, watched as he scrawled notes, or lyrics, or whatever it was that he kept in that damned notebook of his. There were times when all Mark wanted to do was rip that fucking thing away from him and pin him against a wall. There were times when all he wanted was for Roger to be the one on his knees, instead of him. Just once he wanted Roger to be the one begging for him, not the other way around.

Yet when Roger finally did close that book and pushed him against the couch, he remembered that begging really wasn't so bad.


	2. Chapter 2

_1) Roger isn't good at asking for directions._

"Zoom in on Roger, who's been leading me, Maureen and Collins all around New York for the passed three hours because he's got no idea where he's going." Mark finally had said what all three of them had been thinking.

Roger shook his head, glaring at the other behind his camera. "Shut up, I know exactly where we are. We just need to uh...double back! Yes, we were supposed to turn a few streets back, now c'mon!" He started heading in the direction which they had just come in.

"Oh please Roger, why not let me try and get us there hm? I at least won't have us pass the same stores three times before realizing it." Mark stated with a smug grin.

"You have as much of an idea as to where this place is as I do, besides you suck at leading anything, we found that out last night." Roger looked equally as smug, as he watched his roommate turn a deep red.

Maureen broke out into laugher which triggered Collins to start chuckling as well. Mark just tossed the two a frustrated look before walking next to Roger.

Leaning in so that she could whisper into his ear, Maureen questioned "Hey, are you ever going to tell them that we've passed the place at least 4 times now?"

Collins shook his head "Nope."

_2) Mark dislikes fortune cookies._

Mark crumpled up the little fortune, hurling it in the general direction of their trash can. "I don't get it." He stated, "I don't get why in hell they call them "fortune" cookies if they don't give you a fucking fortune"  
Roger sniggered, "Damn Mark, don't get so upset about it, I'll give you a fortune if you want one so badly"  
That earned him a blank stare from the filmmaker, "You'll give me a fortune? What's that gonna say exactly 'He who begs shall receive"  
The other chuckled shaking his head. "At least it's true." Mark sighed in frustration, opening up another cookie and tossing its fortune with his first.

_3) Mark did what he had to, to get Rogers' AZT._

Mark told himself he wasn't a whore.

He told himself that every time someone would approach him, and every time they would slip him the money.

He told himself that every time they would go back to an appetent, or a house, or even the back room of a club. He kept telling himself that when they played their games, be it with whips, or candles and once, only once, with a knife.

He told himself that when the games stopped and he found himself choking down the come of a stranger.

He would even tell himself that when everything was over and he was walking out the door, his customer giving him one last wink, or wave, or kiss.

A few hours later when he walked into the loft, tossing Roger his AZT, Mark would still be trying to convince himself.

_4) Neither of them slept when it stormed._

It had been raining for hours, a steady pounding against their windows, accompanied with lightning that flashed across the skyline and thunder soon following after. Roger had long ago settled himself on the couch under a blanket, choosing to do nothing of productivity but lounge around, occasionally plucking a few strings on the Fender. Mark on the other hand had taken the opportunity to try cutting his latest film. After a while though, the lazy atmosphere of the day sucked him in and he found himself unplugging the projector and crawling to the couch.

"Make some room." He commanded giving Roger a sharp poke in the side. "Well aren't we the nice one, why not try saying please hmm?" Came Roger's half yawned reply.

"Fine then, please move your lazy ass over so I can have some room on the couch." replied Mark with a smile.

Roger gave him a mock glare. Crossing his arms over his chest he shook his head. "Nope, if you wanna come on here, you'll just have to get on top of me."

So Mark did just that.


	3. Chapter 3

_1) Mark likes post-it notes._

Roger was somewhat used to getting up to an empty loft. There were days when the musician wouldn't wake up till one in the afternoon and Mark liked to be out filming by eleven, so Roger wasn't surprised at all when he awoke to nothing but the sounds of the streets below.

Scuffling out of his room, he spotted a few scraps of neon paper sticking to the door, none of which had anything on them that he cared about. Moving into the shabby space that the two called a kitchen, Roger spotted a few more.

"Out of coffee," one read in Mark's scribbled writing. He merely rolled his eyes at it. They'd been out of coffee for a week now.

Another said "Wash dishes." This time Roger snorted. What was he, a kid who needed to do the chores? He'd get to them later if ever.

Moving to the bathroom it took Roger a few minutes to register the bright yellow note that stuck to the side of his face. Peeling it off he looked down at the note before laughing.

It read, "Take your AZT."

_2) Roger has a fondness for cats._

Mark was glaring daggers at the kitten. It had been there a week and it had already managed to scratch him about eight times, steal his scarf and his place on the couch. If Roger hadn't taken so quickly to the damned thing Mark would have thrown it out a window.

Roger did really take to the cat: he held it in his arm, pet it, play with it, and even fed it some of his Capt'n Crunch. He once explained to Mark that he had never been allowed to have pets when he was younger because his mother had been allergic. Mark himself could never sympathize because his sister and he had been allowed to choose their own pets for their tenth birthdays.

The cat had curled itself up on top of Roger's stomach as the male attempted to work out his latest song. Noticing Mark's glares he gave a questioning look. "Something wrong?"

"No, nothing at all."

_3) Mark has a problem with migraines._

His mother used to blame it on the obsessive amounts of films he watched but Mark knew he had the headaches even before he had fallen in love with filmmaking. Ever since he could remember he had to deal with the pain, the feeling that his head was being repeatedly slammed against a brick wall, and there was never anything he could about it. Whenever they would occur he would try and get away from everything as soon as possible, finding the darkest, quietest place in the area and waited for the pains to stop.

Roger had once walked in on him while he was having one of the migraines; Mark had nearly thrown a lamp at him but quick movements made the pain worse and all he managed to do was collapse on his bed.

Roger had been the one to fret that night, never leaving Mark's side as he watched the blond boy with worry. Even after Mark tried to reassure him and explain that there was nothing he could do, that he would just wait it out, he never budged.

Even with the splitting pain, it made Mark smile.

_4) Roger avoids the roof._

He had settled himself on the metal table when Collins came by, letting the other male have the couch all to himself. They had talked for a while about trivial things, about how everyone was doing and how things were at NYU. Roger even ran a few lyrics by his friend, sighing when Collins had to repress his laughter.

"So, where's Mark?" Collins questioned after a bit more teasing and conversation.

Glancing upward, Roger gave an annoyed sigh. "On the fucking roof again, it's like he's living there these days."

Chuckling, Collins began to play with the stray threads on the couch. "Yeah, I noticed. What's he got up there anyway?"

Another annoyed look before the musician answered. "Birds, can you believe it? He's choosing to be up there with some damned pigeons rather then down here with me!"

"Well why not just go up there with him?" asked the older male as he propped his feet up on one end of the couch.

"Well...let's just say it's a long story. A very long story."


	4. Chapter 4

_1) Neither Mark nor Roger locks the door to the loft._

Collins stood outside the familiar door, one hand holding a plastic bag while the other rested against the cool surface of the wall. He had just come from the store, and the plastic bag was filled with cheap liquor and junk foods. He knew the door to the loft would be open, but there was something keeping him from sauntering inside.

It was the moans that were doing it, the moans and whimpers that he hadn't heard since he himself had lived there. Then came the rough commanding voice of Roger, ordering Mark to stay silent as footsteps went in the direction of Mark's bedroom.

Now, Collins thought himself to be a decent man, one who respected others' privacy and if nothing else, had enough self control to keep himself from pushing that door open just a crack to witness what was going in inside. He wasn't a very good judge of his own character, however.

As Roger's steps returned to the open space that they used as a living room, Collins moved in closer, setting the bags down and, with the greatest of ease, slid the door back just enough so he could see inside. What he saw wasn't quite surprising, after all, he had lived with those two at one point and he knew far too well that this wasn't their first time together, but the dress managed to throw him for a loop.

There Mark was, sitting on the ground in what appeared to be a very green velvet dress, as Roger positioned himself behind the blond, wrapping what looked like Mark's own scarf around the blond's neck. With one good tug, Roger captured the boy's mouth with his own, while his hands moved to make a set of knots, one at Mark's neck and the other binding the boy's hands behind him.

Collins nearly jumped as someone tapped his shoulder. Spinning around to face Joanne, he had to repress a laugh as he raised his finger to his lips. Sliding the door closed once more, he motioned for her to follow him away from the loft, the bags abandoned at the entrance.

_2) Mark's camera is considered an accessory._

There were a few things Mark never really wanted to know about himself, finding out that out he was the worst poker player amongst his friends being one of them.

Joanne gave him a wicked smile. "C'mon Mark, take 'em off," she said smugly. Of course she was smug; Joanne was the only one who still had all her clothing on. Already she had gotten a shirt off Roger, Collins' hat, vest and belt, Mimi's socks, shirt and bra, and Maureen's shirt and hat. Mark was a different case though, the only things he had were his camera and a pair of loose jeans.

"Close up on Joanne, who should have told us she was this good at strip poker before we started playing," he said bitterly while glancing down at the pants.

"He doesn't have to take the pants off." Mimi cut in, "he could always loose the camera instead. It's an accessory, like Mo's hat." Glancing at Mark, she offered a reassuring smile. "Besides, at the rate he's going he'll loose the pants soon enough."

After thinking for a moment Joanne sighed. "Fine, if you want you can 'take off' the camera, either way something has to go."

A moment later everyone in the group was grinning, save for Mark, who was turning a nice shade of red. "Wow," Mimi commented. "I'd expect Roger to be going commando, not you, Mark."

_3) Roger can't play solitaire._

Mark strolled into the loft, arms filled with grocery bags. "Roger, clear the table," he said while making his way over.

Looking up from what appeared to be a game of solitaire, the musician shook his head. "Just put 'em on the counter," he began. "I'm in the middle of something right now." He didn't give Mark a second look as the other glared at him.

"Fine, whatever." Getting closer, Mark paused at the table, studying the cards, then glanced at his roommate. "What exactly is that anyway?" He asked with a confused look.

"Solitaire," stated the other as he repositioned a few of cards.

"Uh, Roger...Those are just a bunch of cards shoved together," he pointed out as he set down the groceries.

"Shut up, I know, but I've got no clue how to actually play," Roger explained while chewing on the ace of spades.

Mark just shook his head and started putting away the groceries.

_4) Roger can do interesting things with his tongue._

"I can't fold mine," Mark said with a scowl, as he attempted to fold his tongue up. He, Collins and Roger were strolling out from the Life after leaving Joanne and Maureen to settle another of their fights. Mimi had stayed behind to make sure things ended well.

"It's not that hard, Marky," Roger explained as he demonstrated, sticking his tongue out to show the other two. "Maybe you just don't have the genes for it." He pushed a pair of "borrowed" sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, looking very smug in them.

Mark gave the musician a confused look. "You need genes to fold your tongue?"

Roger nodded, "Yeah, some people have 'em and some don't. I learned it...somewhere." He shrugged.

Sighing Collins glanced from one of his friends to the other. "You two can't be that stupid, Roger you learned it in high school and Mark...I expected better from you."

"Shut up," said Mark with a glare. "Anyway it doesn't matter, not like you can do anything useful with it 'cept maybe unfold one of those Starburst candies."

"Aww, you're not jealous of my talents, are you?" He questioned, leaning on an old Bentley that just happened to be parked on the side of the street. Flicking his tongue out at the other he added, "Maybe later I'll show you what else this tongue can do."

Mark snorted, "Uh-huh. C'mon, Crowley, we've got places to go."

Glancing at Collins, both of them burst out into laughter as Roger stood there looking utterly confused.


	5. Chapter 5

_1) Mark has a tendency to "lose" his glasses._

It was a beautiful day outside. The sun was shining brightly across New York and a light breeze picked up, not causing any discomfort but merely succeeding in making it feel oddly nice out. Cars were inching forward while those who chose to walk were bustling around, their voices managing to float all the way up to a particular loft on Avenue B.

Mumbling something into his pillow Mark Cohen awoke, not actually making any move to get out of bed but instead choosing to squint into the sunlit room in a vain attempt to see anything without his glasses. Rolling over to the box that he was using as a nightstand Mark groped around, searching for his much-needed eyewear. He didn't make much of it when he couldn't feel them anywhere, merely assuming that they had fallen off sometime in the night.

Sliding out from under his covers, he began to crawl on the floor, hands running along the ground trying to feel for the glasses. When he realized that they were nowhere to be found was when Mark started getting worried.

Pulling himself up he stumbled into their makeshift living room, turning to what he assumed was his roommate and began questioning him. "Hey Rog," he began while squinting at the figure before him, trying to get it in focus. "You haven't seen my glasses have you?"

A sound behind him caused Mark to spin around, a perplexed look on his face.

"Uh, Marky, that's a lamp." The musician tried to bite back any amusement in his voice but found it damn near impossible. "I'm on the couch."

"Oh, um...whoops?" Mark gave an embarrassed laugh while scuffling towards the blurred couch. "Yeah well, I can't see a fucking thing without my glasses and I can't find 'em."

Roger shrugged. "Haven't seen 'em." He plucked a few chords on his unplugged Fender.

Leaning in, Mark squinted at the electric guitar, poking it with one finger. A laugh escaped him while Roger looked generally confused. "For a second I thought you were playing a duck," Mark explained.

"Right, you should really double-check your room." Roger shook his head, glancing down at the Fender then back at Mark. "A duck..."

Shrugging, Mark rose again. "Yeah I probably missed them under the bed or something." With that he stumbled and groped his way back to his room.

Roger grinned a wicked and fingered the glasses inside his pocket.

_2) Red is not Mark's color._

"You know it doesn't look /that/ bad," Collins offered up, patting Mark's shoulder. The four of them, Collins, Mark, Roger, and Maureen were seated around the loft. Mark had his head in his hands.

"Don't lie to him, Collins," Roger sniggered. "His head looks like a flammable carrot seed."

"Shut up Roger," Maureen cut in. Wrapping one arm around Mark, she tried to reassure him. "It's cute, pookie. Don't listen to him." She glared at Roger. "In fact, I think it's really hot."

Mark mumbled his thanks.

Roger, however, was still highly amused. Grabbing the mirror that had been abandoned on the table, he pointed it at Mark. "At least we'll never loose you in a crowd now," he pointed out.

Picking his head up, Mark looked into the mirror, a head of fire engine red hair glaring back at him. His head fell back into his hands.

_3) Roger's good at helping Mark sleep._

"Move over," Mark's voice whispered sleepily as one hand moved to push Roger from the edge of the bed.

"Mm, Mark?" The musician yawned, sitting up and watching as the other crawled into his bed. "What're you doin', it's like-" He glanced at his clock which had been dead for three weeks. "Well it doesn't matter, what're you doin' here?"

Mark said something into his pillow.

"Hm?" He snatched away the pillow, holding it out of reach until he got an answer.

"I couldn't sleep," explained Mark. A touch of pink stained his cheeks, although it went unnoticed in the dark room.

"Oh, well, whatever." With a yawn Roger lay back down, snuggling into his blankets assured that he wouldn't be woken again till daybreak.

"Roger, hey, Roger- are you awake?"

What did he want now? Roger shifted, not bothering to repress his yawn and hoping that Mark would get the clue. "What?" He muttered.

"I, uh...I can't sleep," Mark admitted softly, the pink returning again.

Roger propped himself up. "And what would you like me to do about this?" He questioned, his voice reflecting his annoyance but also an underlying curiosity.

"I don't know, just do something. What do you normally do when you can't sleep?" Mark mimicked the other boy, hoping that maybe he'd get some answers.

Roger shrugged. "I don't come bother my roommate at insane hours, that's for sure."

A scoff. "S'a lie," Mark reminded him. "You've done it plenty of times, trust me. I wouldn't forget that sort of thing."

Roger chuckled. "Eh yeah, figured it was worth a shot, though."

Shaking his head Mark let himself drop back onto his pillow. "So besides that I guess you've got no bright ideas, then?"

There were a few minutes of silence before Roger answered. "I've got something," he began, "but there are two conditions. One, you close your eyes, and two, you don't laugh."

Mark nodded. "Mmkay, sounds reasonable enough." He snuggled into his pillow, shutting his eyes and waiting for Roger to do whatever he had in mind.

Clearing his throat, Roger realized how stupid his idea was, but if it would get Mark to let him get some sleep, he really didn't care.

"Golden slumber kiss your eyes,

Smiles await you when you rise.

Sleep,

pretty baby,

Do not cry,

And I'll sing you a lullaby. "

He paused for a moment, squinting into the darkness at Mark. From what he could tell the other wasn't laughing. For a moment Roger thought he was actually asleep.

"S' nice," came a soft voice. Well so much for the sleep thing.

"There's more," Roger informed. "Interested?"

Mark gave a weak smile. "Yeah, go ahead."

"Care you know not,

Therefore sleep,

While I o'er you watch do keep.

Sleep,

pretty darling,

Do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby."

Roger knew that even before he'd finished that Mark was sleeping. A soft smile spread across his lips as he lay down next to him, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy and nuzzling into his neck, soon drifting back to sleep.

_4) Even when he's drunk, stumbling and incoherent, Roger can still sing better then Mark._

Mark had a gut feeling it was a bad idea from the very beginning. His suspicions were affirmed when the openings of "I Got Life" started in the little bar. Shaking his head, he watching as Roger leapt onto the stage, grabbed the microphone and started half-singing, half-slurring the lyrics to the familiar song.

It had been Collins' idea to go the karaoke place. He had said that they needed a little change from the norm and if nothing else, they'd get to see Roger stark-raving drunk and singing. He couldn't believe he fell for that bribe since Roger was proving himself rather competent in singing, even with all the alcohol flowing in his system.

Since they'd arrived everyone had gotten a few drinks in them, although Mark was the closest thing to sober amongst the three. Collins, who wasn't quite as wasted as Roger but not as sober as Mark, was settled at a table closer to the stage, enthusiastically cheering Roger on.

"..I got my hair

I got my head

I got my brains

I got my ears

I got my eyes

I got my nose..."

Mark chuckled as he watched Roger move across the stage, doing an impromptu dance as he sang. Collins seemed to be getting the music as well, swaying and mouthing the words until he watched as Roger jumped off the stage, wrapped an arm around the other man, and both of them sang the last few lines.

Setting his camera aside for a moment, Mark clapped and cheered with the rest of the patrons, laughing a bit as Roger tugged Collins onto the stage with him. Raising an eyebrow, Mark was curious to see what the new found duet would do next, especially since Roger was nearly bouncing from his own excitement.

As he listened to the opening music Mark was sure he'd heard the song before but for the life of him couldn't manage to place it. Chewing his lower lip he nearly sliced into it as Collins began to sing:

"No more

Walking up six flights of stairs

or throwing down the key

because there is no buzzer!"

Mark was laughing and clapping all over again, knowing the song quite well himself and a bit surprised that either of the other two even recalled it. However, his amusement was soon fading as both Collins and Roger leaned into the microphone, a mischievous glint in both their eyes.

"Marky, you better get your skinny ass up here!" called Collins into the mic while Roger went to fetch him. Before Mark even knew what happened Roger had managed to get him on the stage and the three of them were singing their hearts out.

A few hours and many songs later, the three of them stumbled out of the bar. Roger had wrapped one arm around each of his friends and all three of them were grinning like idiots. "Told ya you'd 'enjoy it." Collins grinned smugly as Roger chuckled and Mark glared at both of them.

"Was 'embarrassing'," he said simply, even though inside he knew he had had more fun then he would ever admit even to himself.

"You're only mad 'cause I sang better then you," Roger teased.

This time Collins was the one laughing while Mark mumbled incoherently.


	6. Chapter 6

_1) Roger knows his Shakespeare._

The day was typical one for mid-October; the leaves were blowing in the chilly wind as the evening descended on a suburban street in the town of Scarsdale. It was around 7 PM when Roger Davis walked down that street, a smirk on his face and a spring in his step. He turned into one of the driveways, the mailbox he passed indicating that the Cohen family resided there, and strolled right on up to the front door. However instead of doing what was expected of him and knocking on the door or even ringing the doorbell, the boy cleared his throat before calling out into the evening air,

"O, then, I see Queen Mab hath been with you.

She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes

In shape no bigger than an agate-stone

On the fore-finger of an alderman,

Drawn with a team of little atomies

Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;

Her wagon-spokes made of long spiders' legs,

The cover of the wings of grasshoppers,

The traces of the smal-"

The sounds of something pulling up behind him startled the boy, causing Roger to spin around before ginning broadly at the car filled with the Cohen family, confused expressions plastered on each of their faces. The youngest, Mark, slid out from his seat and scurried over to his friend while the rest of the family looked in with curiosity. "Roger?" The blond, bespectacled boy began, "Maybe this is a stupid question and I'm sorry if it is, but what the hell?"

Roger only shrugged, his grin growing even wider, "I talk of dreams, which are the children of an idle brain."

Mark shook his head in frustration as he heard the rest of his family get out of the car. "Ok, better question. Why are you standing in front of my house quoting Romeo and Juliet?"

"Because he's psycho," Mark's sister Cindy informed.

"Cindy!" Their mother scolded as she climbed the steps to their door. "I'm sure Roger has a perfectly good reason for standing out here, just give him a chance."

Their father was the last to join the group. "Actually honey," he informed with a lighthearted chuckle, "I think I agree with Cindy. Roger, you're as crazy as a loon."

Once again Roger shrugged, his eyes turning to Mark, "Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint." He didn't bother holding back his laugher at hearing the other boy's groan.

"You're gonna be at this all night, aren't you?" questioned Mark as he moved so his mother could unlock the door. "Actually wait, if you're gonna' find a way to answer that with a quote I don't even wanna hear it."

And so Roger stayed silent as they entered the Cohen home.

_2) Neither of them ever gets a full night's sleep._

There were things that Mark never questioned about Roger; things that he knew were meant to never be brought up in conversation or mentioned as they brushed passed each other. The boundary had been established so long ago that he couldn't ever remember a time where he could freely question Roger on anything he wanted. It never bothered him though, everyone had their secrets, but he couldn't say that he was content with sitting back and not getting any answers. Even though their unwritten rule hung thick in the air, he couldn't help but wonder.

He'd wonder every time he found Roger curled up on the windowsill, his eyes red from lack of sleep. Mark would never question though, only tug at Roger, trying to pull him to the couch, or his room, or somewhere that would allow the musician a few moments rest. He would only move after the sun rose, usually dragging himself to the couch and sleeping away most of the day, while Mark was left to stew in his own thoughts and theories on the matter.

He couldn't bring himself to ask when he would hear Roger in his room, soft words floating through paper thin walls. Words of worry and longing, of sadness and questions and most importantly, of fear. All of them sounded worn and tired, as if he were some dying record only playing because the owner found comfort in the cracked and fading music. It was only when Mark would catch a soft glow of light emitting from underneath the closed door that the words would die down and eventually fade away.

Roger knew how things worked, no matter how badly he may have wanted to ask, there were certain things that he and Mark never discussed, period. The boundary had been set long ago and it was one of the few things that Roger never pushed. He knew better then to try, especially since Mark wasn't the only one benefiting from it. Of course he still had his questions for the filmmaker but he knew they'd never get answered and, while it took a little time to accept, he eventually got over it.

However, that didn't mean that Roger wouldn't have the urge to question Mark when he would find the boy curled up in a corner of his bed, body tangled up in sheets and tears still streaking down his face. He would always bite his tongue though, shaking the filmmaker awake and offering a glass of water. Mark would refuse him every time, untangle himself from the mess of blankets and go about the day as if nothing had occurred. The next night, Roger knew that he wouldn't sleep, or the night after that. Mark would stay awake until Roger would find him collapsed on the couch.

He also stayed quiet when he would see the wounds. They were small; always showing up after one of the blond's restless sleeps and would become more prominent each day that the boy stayed awake. Roger would only watch to make sure that Mark would take the time to clean them, which he always did, before trying his best to ignore the black and blues on the others arms or the small band-aid on his forehead. Sometimes he could guess where they came from, the sounds of something thrashing about and things tumbling to the floor never being obscured by their walls, but more often then not he was too busy fighting his own demons in the night.

Mark and Roger knew the rules and they followed them to the best of their ability. Neither one asked questions when they would find the other curled up on the couch in the middle of the night, nor did they ask when they would sit down and pull the other close to them, both shaking for their separate reasons but knowing that things would eventually calm down. They didn't ask questions the entire night, because that's how long they would stay together, too afraid to let go and face the night alone. It was aright, the questions that they had would eventually fade, the morning light pushing all thoughts away but the sweet thoughts of a restful sleep.

In the end they would always realize that they didn't need to ask questions anyway, they had managed to rise high above words.

_3) Roger enjoys his cookies._

When Mark entered the loft, he was almost sure that he was alone. The lights were off, there was no sound of music bouncing off the walls and most importantly there appeared to be no Roger. Shrugging it off, the filmmaker dropped the grocery bags on the counter, pawing through each one until he found what he was looking for. Setting aside a package of Oreo's, he began to put everything else away, unnoticing of the soft footsteps behind him until the sound of the Oreo's being disturbed caused the blond to nearly drop the package of eggs he had.

"What the fuck Roger?" Mark exclaimed, spinning around to catch the smug look on the musicians face as he tore into the bag of cookies. "Make some noise next time, ok?"

Aside from the smirk, Roger acted as if he didn't even notice Mark, choosing to instead munch on a cookie, a content smile on his face.

Snatching away the bag, Mark scowled. "The least you could do is say thank you." stated the filmmaker as he pulled out a cookie.

"Fine, thank you." A wide grin spread across his face as he yanked the cookie from Mark and began to eat it himself.  
"Hey! That was mine!" Mark pouted as he reached out to get another cookie.

Roger stole that one too.

"Roger! Stop it; we're not in preschool anymore." He backed away a few feet before getting the next cookie.

Right before it reached his lips, he found it once again being taken from him.

"Ok stop. Right now. You're giving me flashbacks." Mark sighed, as he put down the bag of Oreo's and watched as the musician ate what were supposed to be -his- cookies.

"Hm?" Roger asked between bites. "What're you talking about?"

"You don't remember?" Mark looked almost shocked. "You'd STEAL all my cookies! Every single time anyone gave me one there you were, just waiting for me to let my guard down."  
"Oh come on," Roger rolled his eyes. "I didn't do it -all- the time."

"I cried at least once a day just because you stole my damned cookies. Trust me, yes you did." Mark eyed the bag while toying with the fringe of his scarf.

"Actually," he continued as he watched Roger eat. "You were an ass when we were little. I forgot about that."

Rolling his eyes again, Roger hopped on the counter. "Oh come on, I was just enjoying myself back then. You were the one who'd start to fucking cry whenever I touched you."

"Because when you touched me it was with something weird and nasty." Mark made himself comfortable on the table. "I at least was a good kid back then."  
A snort, "You were a pussy."

"Was not!"

"Were too!"

"Was not!"  
"Were too!"

"Ok, we have GOT to stop this." said the filmmaker with a shake of his head.

Roger smirked, "Only because you know I was right. You were SUCH a pussy back then. Remember you cried whenever that one chick took away your scarf?"  
For a moment Mark's face went blank, trying to recall the events. "Oh!" A light bulb went off in his head. "...You do remember the only reason that she took away my scarf was because -you- kept stepping on it and making me trip or choke, right?" He began to kick his legs back and forth as he spoke, frowning a bit as Roger reached for another cookie.

"Did I? I don't remember that." He shrugged, stuffing the cookie into his mouth. "I dun' remember that either." he added, swallowing the Oreo with a grin.

Mark rolled his eyes. "You don't remember much do you?"

"Nope, then again most people don't remember their preschool years all that clearly."

"I remember then pretty well," Mark said matter-of-factly. After that it was silence, Mark loosing himself in old memories and Roger, for once, choosing to stay quiet, sound only coming from his as he ate the occasional Oreo.

4) Roger also likes paperclips.

"Roger, hey Roger!"

The musician looked up, one hand still lingering in the drawer that he had just been pawing in. "Good, you're here. Maureen sent me to drag your ass to the Life, she said she tried to call but you didn't pick up."

Joanne blinked, "She called? Maureen never calls."

He shrugged, "Well whatever, I'm here now I've said what I need to say and now I'm taking these and going." He stuffed something in his pocket before moving toward the door.

Stepping in front of him, Joanne shook her head. "What're you taking Davis, show it to me." She held one hand out, a stern look on her face.

Rolling his eyes, Roger pulled out one of the paperclips he had taken from the drawer and handed it to her. "They look like guitar picks." He explained with a little amused smirk. "I always said I'd take a few if I ever got the chance, besides you're a –lawyer- you can afford to get more."

Joanne smirked, "Whatever," she laughed. "If you wait a few minutes I'll walk with you, just let me shut things down here."

He shrugged, flopping down onto one of the chairs in the room, "Sure, it's better then being left alone with to wait on everyone else anyway."


	7. Chapter 7

_1) Roger is dreadful at Battleship._

"One more game."

Mark sighed, stretching on the couch. "Roger, we've played six games of Battleship; just accept the fact that you suck." He shifted slightly so that he was lying on his stomach, watching the other and waiting for him to admit defeat.

"I accept nothing! There is no way in hell that you're better than me at this- I was the /king/ of Battleship!" Roger crossed his arms and glared at the game that sat between the two of them before looking back at Mark.

"I want one more game, just one."

Twenty minutes later, the boys found themselves in the same exact position as before. Roger was sulking and glaring daggers at the board game while Mark wore an uncharacteristically smug grin.

"So," said the filmmaker as he turned to look at his friend. "I think we can both agree that I win."

"You win nothing. One more game!"

_2) Mark likes to trace Roger's tattoos._

In the days of withdrawal, real peace was something rarely felt in the loft. Occasionally there was a false peace floating around, but the underlying tension was so thick in the air that it was stifling. However, there had been a few times when both Mark and Roger had worn each other down so much that something resembling calm was able to overtake them.

There was one evening when Roger had finally fallen asleep on the couch. His shaking was not as violent as normal and the words he spoke not quite as desperate. Watching him silently for a few moments, Mark smiled. He couldn't help it, seeing Roger have a good night always placed a smile on his face.

He too was weary: when Roger didn't sleep, neither did he. Collins would be dropping by later that night and he could catch up on sleep then. Besides, even if he wanted to fall asleep, a part of him wouldn't allow it to happen. It was the same part that made Mark stay through all the abuse and craziness of Roger's withdrawal. It was the part that wanted to see Roger get through everything.

A hand reached out to the songwriter, fingers lightly tracing the tattoo that decorated his arm. At first it was a merely idle motion; Mark needed something to do with his hands and Roger was just there, but eventually it had become more than that. In the beginning his finger was light and clumsy, as more time passed each touch became firmer, more deliberate, until it felt as if Mark himself were the one creating the tattoo.

Collins found him like that, hand stopped in mid line at the sight of him. With a soft, embarrassed smile, Mark gave him a hug and then scuffled off to his own bedroom to get some much-needed sleep.

_3) Mark likes getting his hair stroked._

Mark always reveled in afterglow. It was the time where he would just lay in Roger's arms, a smile playing on his lips as the songwriter would pull him close or kiss him lightly. Their lust had almost faded completely from those kisses, although Mark knew that, if he wanted, he could bring it back in a heartbeat. However more often then not, he was just happy with the soft kisses pressed against his forehead as Roger's fingers stroked his hair, lulling the blond into a deliciously drowsy state.

_4) Roger hates penguins._

"...You have /got/ to be kidding me." Roger stared at the little stuffed penguin in front of him. It was just a little larger than his hand and the fuzzy material it was made of just begged to be touched. He didn't like it.

"Oh come on, you don't think it's even a little cute?" The filmmaker smirked behind his camera. "It doesn't bring back any memories?"

Roger's eyes rose to meet the camera. "We said we'd forget about that."

Marks' smirk grew. "Roger, it's a little hard to forget about. You /fell/ into the penguin cage." The camera shook as he chuckled at the memory of a young Roger Davis falling forward in an attempt to pet a penguin on their trip to the zoo.

"I was stupid. I was eight!" Roger crossed his arms, glaring daggers at the little penguin. "Besides, why bring it up now?" His eyes were curious as they turned away from the plush toy.

"Simple," Mark said, as he reached over and put the penguin on Roger's head. "We're supposed to be going to the zoo tomorrow."

"...You have /got/ to be kidding me."


End file.
